described the inner working of the _Globe_ office, and revealed
much that I believe has amused people. I referred to Palmer as the
“weevil,” because he was so clever in any investigations that he
undertook as second reporter, under William Jeans. One unwritten
law of the _Globe_ was that no member of its staff had ever been
discharged. Sir George Armstrong was a humorist, and always very
lenient. An apprentice in our editorial department, named Knight,
was once called up and told to resign. But he continued to draw his
salary as usual, and still remained there for years after I left.
Jack Jewell, the original “Larry Lynx,” was a great character, and
a most hearty, good-humoured soul. But he had periodical bursts of
merriment, and sometimes did not turn up in the mornings. On such
occasions his office-boy, named Tilbury--a particularly bright
lad--would read up the morning papers and write out “Larry Lynx’s
Latest” tips for the day--an event that happened ten or a dozen times
a month.
And, funnily enough, the office-boy’s tips were often more correct
than those given by our popular sporting editor!
So much for journalistic tipsters!
Though I am not a Roman Catholic, the late Cardinal Manning became a
very generous friend to me. One day he called on me at the _Globe_
office to enlist the paper in the cause of some charity. I took
it up, and in return His Eminence gave me the run of his private
library at the Archbishop’s house at Westminster. I often spent my
evenings there, and on several occasions the dear old soft-voiced
Cardinal came in and chatted to me about journalism and literature.
He afterwards gave me a letter of introduction to Cardinal Rampolla
at the Vatican, which was of the greatest use to me.
Here is a little story that will show the broadmindedness of His
Eminence.
A new Roman Catholic church was to be consecrated at Hounslow, and
with other representatives of the Press I journeyed down there one
very hot summer’s morning. I arrived late; the church was crowded to
overflowing, and the ceremony had started. I saw the impossibility of
sitting inside, so I stood by an open window and heard the beautiful
service.
Afterwards Father O’Sullivan, the resident priest, on coming out,
beckoned me over, and with three or four pressmen led me into his
house near by.
“You fellows will find some whiskey and glasses,” he said hurriedly,
his round face beaming. “After I’ve seen to the Cardinal I’ll join
you. Phew! The heat! You must all be just as thirsty as I am!”
And he closed the door. Beneath the table stood a big wicker-covered
jar of excellent Irish whiskey, and on a tray some glasses, so we
helped ourselves to the very welcome refreshment, and began to smoke.
Presently Father O’Sullivan joined us, and somebody told a good
story, which set us all laughing merrily as we stood around with our
glasses in our hands.
Of a sudden the door again opened, and His Eminence the Cardinal,
very feeble and frail, stood before us.
In an instant he took in the situation, and, laughing, said:
“Ah, gentlemen! I see that you are far better off than I am! I’m
thirsty too!”
“Will your Eminence take a glass of water?” asked the priest quickly.
“I must apologize that none was provided in your room!”
“No apology is needed,” the Cardinal assured him, smiling. “But I
really will take some water.”
So, laughing merrily at the situation, the famous Cardinal, who would
no doubt have been elected Pope had he lived, stood with us, sipping
his water, and chatting with us, while we drank our whiskey.
When he left, he remarked:
“I am very pleased, gentlemen, to see that Father O’Sullivan is
entertaining you so pleasantly.”
A few days later, when I saw him in his library, he mentioned the
incident, and, with a laugh, remarked:
“Though Father O’Sullivan forgot my water he didn’t forget his own
whiskey, did he?”
One morning I set out from Charing Cross for the city of Treves, on
the Moselle, in order to see and describe for the _Globe_, the Holy
Coat, which is exhibited in the ancient cathedral once every fifty
years.
I was alone as far as Brussels, but when changing trains, to go south
to Treves, I saw on the platform the burly figure of old George
Augustus Sala, the veteran travelling correspondent of the _Daily
Telegraph_.
“Hulloa, Le Queux!” he cried merrily. “Are you going to see this
confounded coat?”
I admitted that I was, and we travelled together all day. On our
arrival at Treves we found that it was quite impossible to obtain
beds, the whole place being filled with pilgrims from all over
Europe--an unwashed crowd that had arrived to see the relic of whose
authenticity I am not in a position to judge.
Tents had been erected all over the countryside and down the streets
of the old Roman town, and one could hardly get to the cathedral for
the dense throng.
We found vacant seats before what seemed to be the best café in the
place, and Sala at last had a private chat with the proprietor.
“I happen to be one of the honorary guardians of the Coat,” the man
said. “But, unfortunately for you journalists, the Bishop has to-day
given orders that no mere sightseers shall be allowed to enter the
cathedral.”
“Oh, then that settles it, Le Queux!” said Sala, fixing me with his
cross-eye. “We must become pilgrims.”
And pilgrims we became next day, for we both bought blue peasants’
blouses and caps, and with a rosary each, we together went in under
a big blue banner borne aloft by a pilgrimage from Metz. As Sala
chanted with seriousness, in his deep bass voice, it was all I could
do to keep a straight face. But we were the only journalists who got
in, and I recollect that my description published in the _Globe_ was
headed “The Holy Coat at Treves: By an Amateur Pilgrim.”
The editor of the _Kladderadatsch_, the _Punch_ of Berlin, copied
my article without giving me credit for being its author, and was
promptly sent to prison for six months for daring to call into
question the genuineness of a “holy” relic. And serve him right. I
did not hold, however, with a writer in the _Pall Mall_ who, a few
days afterwards, declared that a “holy pair of trousers” had been
discovered in a church in a village somewhere in Bohemia!
* * * * *
Among the many leading lights of the legal profession whom I met
during my journalistic days, I have pleasant recollections of Mr.
Justice Avory, Sir Archibald Bodkin, Lord Justice Scrutton--of
copyright knowledge, and a good friend of all authors; Sir Henry
Duke, who was at that time a journalist on the staff of the _Daily
Telegraph_; Sir Edward Marshall-Hall, K.C.; and also of my old
practical joking friend, Charles Gill, who afterwards rose to become
a King’s Counsel, Recorder of Chichester, Senior Counsel to the
Treasury, to the Bankers’ Association, and to the Jockey Club, as
well as a Bencher of the Middle Temple.
But at the time of the story I am about to relate we were both young,
and he was glad enough to earn a few guineas at police or county
courts. We had a mutual friend in a stout, highly-humorous solicitor
named George Lay, who practised mainly at the Brentford Police Court,
and, like Gill, was well known in London theatrical circles.
One day, during a General Election, I went down to the riverside town
of Staines, where a very hot contest was in progress. On the previous
night the parties in opposition had come to fisticuffs at a meeting.
Dixon-Hartland, the banker, was contesting the constituency in the
Conservative interest, and it seemed a foregone conclusion that he
would be re-elected.
I arrived at the Bridge House Hotel at Staines, about six o’clock,
and had ordered some dinner in readiness for the meeting at the
Town Hall at seven, when to my surprise in walked Charles Gill,
wearing his monocle, accompanied by George Lay. The local bench of
magistrates had been sitting, and both had been engaged in opposition
in a serious case of assault on a wife by a jealous husband.
They greeted me, and, as we sat down to dinner, inquired the reason
of my visit to Staines.
I told them, whereupon, after a brief silence, Gill made a suggestion.
“Look here, Lay,” he said, “why shouldn’t we stay and have a bit of
fun? We’ve been slanging each other all day. Why not let us continue?”
“How,” asked Lay, always ready for an adventure.
“Well, let’s go to this election meeting with Le Queux. You support
Dixon-Hartland, and I’ll take the part of the other Johnnie--what’s
his name? You sit in front and I’ll sit at the back, and we’ll create
some real trouble between us, eh?”
George Lay at once agreed.
We ate our dinner and went to the meeting. Lay sat in the second
row, with Gill far away at the back. The chairman made a comfortable
speech to a packed audience extolling the virtues of the candidate
who sat on the platform smiling down on his supporters.
All went quietly until Dixon-Hartland rose to speak. Gill allowed
him to make a few statements, and then, to everyone’s surprise, he
rose and loudly protested in his most forensic language against the
statement--something with regard to Ireland--and appealed to the
chairman and to the audience, causing a great sensation.
Whereupon George Lay rose, and, turning to the interrupter with a
flow of vituperation that could only be possessed by a brow-beating
police-court solicitor, inquired the name of “this gentleman, this
unknown outsider, who has come here to upset our meeting!”
That was a signal for a sharp quarrel between the pair. They shouted
at each other, both crimson with anger, and shook their fists
threateningly. They called each other nasty names, till the chairman,
with great difficulty, called them to order, and at last stopped the
uproar.
Then, all being quiet again, the candidate proceeded. But Gill
allowed him to go on for only about five minutes, when again he rose
to object. Again Lay jumped up, and again the pair attacked each
other with violence, cheered by one portion of the audience and
hissed by the other.
Four times was this repeated, till the audience at last took sides
with the objector and his opponent, and would no longer listen to the
candidate. The uproar became intense, the chairman became powerless,
the crowd got out of hand, chairs were smashed, and the meeting
broke up in terrible confusion. I myself narrowly escaped from an
infuriated partisan of the opposition candidate, who was flourishing
the leg of a broken table.
When I got outside I saw Gill standing on the step of the Town Hall
still haranguing the crowd.
Afterwards we all three took the last train from Staines to London,
and many a time we laughed over our joke.
Gill became more serious in his latter days. He was a member of the
committee appointed in 1918 to inquire into German war crimes, and he
worked very hard as a member of the sub-committee which was presided
over by the late Mr. Justice Peterson and which dealt with the
treatment of thousands of British prisoners of war in Germany.
From his position as counsel to the Jockey Club (of which he was also
an honorary member) it will be gathered that Gill was interested in
sport, and country pursuits were his principal relaxations from the
depressing labour of his profession. Following the tradition of the
Old Bailey, he was also a patron of the drama, and at one time was
often seen at first-night performances. He was a popular member of
the Turf, Garrick, Beefsteak, and other clubs.
* * * * *
One December morning I joined a big party headed by George Augustus
Sala, and including Bennett Burleigh, the war correspondent, Melton
Prior, the artist, and a number of kindred spirits of Fleet Street.
We met at Euston Station, having been invited by the Cambrian
Railways--I believe they were our hosts--to visit Barmouth, in North
Wales, and describe its advantages as a winter resort against the
then much-advertised Colwyn Bay.
We boarded a special train, which, after leaving Shrewsbury, stopped
frequently, and champagne was served at the station bars.
At Barmouth the Town Council met us, and put us into most comfortable
quarters at the Coes-y-Gedol Hotel. We were rather crowded, however,
and Sala and myself, being constant fellow-travellers over Europe in
those days, shared a room.
Sala wore his golf-cap in bed, I remember, just as Harry de Windt
invariably does. Only I have seen Harry in a _wagon-lit_ sleeping in
his bowler, for, curiously enough, the explorer is most fastidious
about draughts.
Well, on the night of our arrival at Barmouth the council of that
thriving watering-place, with its beautiful stretch of sands for
bathing, gave us a splendid banquet of welcome. The Mayor, the local
doctors, the Town Clerk, and other municipal officials told us of
its warm winter climate and of its hours of winter sunshine, which
were not eclipsed by those at St. Leonards or Bournemouth, and we sat
spoon-fed with the little town’s advantages.
We retired to bed full of Barmouth and its coming winter life.
Sala, as he threw off his braces, said:
“By Heaven, Le Queux, according to the city fathers this place must
be equal in warmth to Palermo or Algiers. Winter sunshine! I don’t
see much sign of it, eh? I’m horribly cold!” and with a shiver he
cast a glance with his blind eye towards me and soon dived into bed.
Next morning when we rubbed our eyes and looked out of the window the
ground was deeply covered with snow! It snowed all day--and the next!
Those who had invited us naturally grew alarmed. They wondered what
we would say.
George Augustus Sala on the second afternoon called an informal
committee meeting in the smoking-room of the hotel, at which most of
us were present.
“Look here, you fellows,” he said bluntly, “these people have done us
very well, haven’t they? They can’t help the snow. They can help it
at Colwyn Bay, where their weather report says it is always sunshine.
Now I put it to the vote, for we are all of us sportsmen. Shall we
tell the truth--or shall we lie? Now--the truth? Hands up!”
Not a hand was raised.
“Lies--artistic ones?” he asked, with his cocked eye glancing at the
door in fear of any outsider intruding.
Every hand went up.
“The lies have it!” he answered, and the lies did have it. You have
only to search the files of the London daily newspapers on the
following day to read what gloriously bright sunshine and blue skies
reigned at Barmouth during the visit of the London Press!
Probably journalists may object to the revelation of such secrets,
but, after all, the town of Barmouth had, in a perfectly justifiable
bid for winter prosperity, spent so much money on our entertainment
that we all agreed that we had been placed in a most difficult
position by the clerk of the weather.
And in journalism the truth is, after all, not always welcome. If
everyone suddenly became candid concerning his neighbour, this would
indeed be an uncomfortable world.
But there was a _dénouement_ of my story. One of my assistants on the
_Globe_ knew what had happened. It was his duty to check the reports
each morning from the Meteorological Office. He waited his time till
about a fortnight later snow was reported at Colwyn Bay. He promptly
replaced the word “fine” by “snow.” And he left the word “snow”
against Colwyn Bay for weeks and weeks, notwithstanding the protests
of readers at that North Wales resort.
When I protested, he said:
“Well, Colwyn Bay can’t have it all its own way. It has been sunny at
Barmouth each day for the past few weeks, so why can’t we give Colwyn
Bay a bit of snow?”
In May he changed the word opposite Colwyn Bay to “unsettled,”
whereat the municipal authorities and hotel-keepers grew furious,
and wrote some most uncomplimentary letters.
With the modern press-agent I have no patience. He is paid to
exaggerate to the public the mediocre and magnify the unworthy person
into a genius. He is a product of our present age of advertising.
Given a financial backing your press-agent of to-day--clever and
subtle in his paragraphs, I grant--can accomplish miracles in the
social standing of his clients, be they the _nouveau riche_, the
pretty chorus girl, the budding artist, the writer, or the crook.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Among Editors and Publishers--The Hiding Place of King
Solomon’s Treasures--An Amazing Story which Puzzled Dr.
Adler, the Chief Rabbi--Adventures in Novel-Writing--Mr.
Asquith and the Editor--A Special Correspondent’s
Humour--Sir George Newnes and I Play at Cross Purposes--The
Great _Tit-Bits_ Treasure Hunt and its Humours--The Man
Who Found the Secret of the World’s Origin--_Pearson’s_
and Their Brilliant Staff--Percy Everett Compels the
Author of _If Winter Comes_ to Destroy a Wasps’ Nest--The
Editor of _Pearson’s Magazine_ has a Most Humiliating
Experience--Stories of Writers.
At first the publishers were not exactly kind to me.
I wrote my first novel, _Guilty Bonds_, on my return from Russia,
where I had been on a special mission for _The Times_, the country
then being under the Emperor Alexander, and people were being exiled
wholesale to Siberia without any charge being made against them.
The story sold well, for, coincident with _Called Back_, it was
one of the first novels that described Russia under the Tzars. It
was afterwards dramatized. My old friend Joseph Hatton wrote _By
Order of the Tzar_! and had it published with a significant yellow
ticket inside, the public to this day never dreaming that it was the
colour of the passport issued to every Jewess, of whatever station,
proclaiming her to be a woman of ill-fame!
Feeling success assured, I went to the Great Sahara with the
Dubois Expedition, and on returning wrote _Zoraida_ and _The Great
War_. Because George Griffith--who had written _The Angel of the
Revolution_--induced me, I gave both these books to the Tower
Publishing Company.
They produced them well. Coulson Kernahan, my oldest literary friend,
then reader to Ward & Lock; Sir Robertson Nicoll--to whom I owe much
of my success; W. E. Henley, Clement Shorter; Norman Gale; Douglas
Sladen, and Davenport Adams--of the black velvet jacket--all declared
my success to be assured.
I had then given up journalism and was living in a cosy little flat
at the Magnan end of the Promenade des Anglais at Nice, going up
in July and August to the Pyrenees to escape the great heat on the
Riviera.
I trod on air and worked hard; but imagine my dismay and
disappointment when, at the moment I expected to receive a
substantial cheque for the royalties on both books, which were
selling by thousands, I received a formal letter from a bankruptcy
official to say that the Tower Publishing Company had failed, and
that I should not only get nothing from my two years of labour,
but that the copyrights had been bought by a well-known firm of
publishers, and passed out of my hands! Such was the law in those
days. I had, in my youthful enthusiasm, toiled for two years for
nothing!
That was over thirty years ago, and to-day, as I write, _Zoraida_
has just begun as “a great new Le Queux serial” in an Irish daily
newspaper!
Could any man experience a greater set-back?
I went to my old friend A. P. Watt, the literary agent, who was just
then commencing business in Paternoster Row, and he introduced me to
various publishers.
Sir George Hutchinson and Alfred Spencer, his partner, F. V. White,
who was publishing _Belgravia_ and John Strange Winter’s novels;
Newman Flower, who had just come to Cassell’s; Fisher Unwin, who
later sought me in Florence; and Eveleigh Nash, all became my firmest
friends, and remain so to-day. I also got to know intimately Stanley
Paul, the burly giant who, alas! has had ill-health of late years,
W. L. Courtney, Israel Zangwill, Sir Ernest Hodder-Williams, whom
everyone congratulated on his well-earned title, and the irascible
old George Newnes and his kindly son, Sir Frank.
Then, later, I met such outstanding men as Lord Riddell, Sir Edward
Hulton, James Heddle, and William Lees, who had just graduated from
Thomson’s of Dundee to the fiction department of the _Daily Sketch_.
With the belief that publishers are often pilferers of one’s
royalties I do not agree.
With the exception of the Tower Publishing Company--which let George
Griffith and myself down so very badly--I have never met a firm who
would descend to “cook” an author’s accounts. I hold in respect
every firm with whom I have had business dealings, both here and in
America--where, because of curious copyright laws, the temptation to
steal is certainly open. Even the good continental firms are always
fair and above-board.
I have many pleasant recollections of my editor and publisher
friends, not only in London, but also in Paris, Milan, and New York.
But to the aspiring author I would say a word of warning regarding
the firms who publish books on commission. If a book is not worth the
publisher’s risk it certainly is not worth the author’s, no matter
how tempting the terms offered.
A mysterious affair, which remains a mystery to this day, is known
only to myself, although both Sir C. Arthur Pearson and my dear
friend, Dr. Adler, the Chief Rabbi, both now dead, knew of it.
One day, during the five years I lived at the Hotel Cecil, a waiter
brought me a card bearing the name of Broström, with an address in
Stockholm. A tall, middle-aged, clean-shaven Swede was ushered in,
and handed me a letter of introduction from a friend, a certain
Baroness Ernberg, who is one of the leaders of Society in the
Swedish capital.
This letter explained that my visitor was a well-known civil engineer
in Sweden, that he was highly trustworthy, and that he had a very
curious disclosure to make to me.
We sat down, and certainly what he told me caused my eyes to bulge.
Briefly, it was that a friend of his, a certain Professor Afzelius,
at Abö University, had discovered in the original text of the Book
of Ezekiel preserved in the Imperial Library at Petrograd a cipher
message that gave the whereabouts of the concealed treasures from
King Solomon’s temple.
At first I was inclined to laugh, but he assured me that he wished
for no money, only my influence and support to induce a London
newspaper to take up the matter and send out an expedition to
Jerusalem to explore.
“I will leave these papers with you,” he said. “I daresay you do not
know Hebrew, but if you will submit them to any good Hebrew scholar I
think you will find that he will be much interested.” And he rose and
left.
I thought of my old friend Dr. Adler, Chief Rabbi, and that same day
I called and left the papers, he promising to go through them, but
expressing an honest scepticism.
Three days later, when I called, he admitted that he had gone through
them with his distinguished brother, and that there was certainly
something in them very curious and intensely interesting to Hebrew
scholars. It was his opinion that the matter should certainly be
further investigated. Indeed, he seemed highly excited over the whole
matter.
In consequence, I called on another old friend, Sir C. Arthur
Pearson, then proprietor of the _Standard_, put the matter before
him and suggested the sending out of an expedition to Palestine to
explore. To this he most generously acceded, and an initial sum was
agreed between us for its cost. I was to head the expedition to
Palestine.
That afternoon I walked along the Strand full of suppressed
excitement. I was to search for the treasure of Solomon!
I called Mr. Broström on the telephone, and when he arrived at the
hotel I announced the joyful news, and the amount placed at my
disposal for the equipment of the expedition.
But, to my utter amazement, he replied:
“To-day I have had a telegram from my friend Afzelius, in Abö, and,
though I thank you, we have decided not to carry our investigations
any further.”
He left me, and he has never since been seen in London.
Dr. Adler admitted that the papers in Hebrew I placed before him
contained something extraordinary. And it certainly seems apparent
that there is some curious hidden message in the earliest manuscript
of Ezekiel. Can any reader solve the mystery why the discoverers so
suddenly withdrew? I cannot.
The curious incident gave me the idea for my novel, _Treasure of
Israel_.
My recollections of editors are many. Here is one.